Margaret opened her mouth to say something and then changed her mind. She tapped her pencil against her chapped lower lip and stared at Brooke. “You do realize you’re already closing in on your total number of vacation days this year and it’s only June?”

Brooke nodded.

Margaret tapped her pencil against her desk. Tap-tap-tap, it went in unison with Brooke’s pounding headache.

“And I don’t need to remind you that calling in sick to attend parties with your husband cannot happen anymore, right? I’m sorry, Brooke, but I can’t give you special treatment.”

Ouch. Brooke had done that only once so far and was certain Margaret didn’t know, but she’d definitely been planning to dip into her ten remaining sick days once her vacation ran out. Now that was clearly not an option. Brooke did her best to look unruffled and said, “Of course not.”

“Well, all right then. Saturday is yours. Is there anything else?”

“Nothing else. Thank you for understanding.” Brooke stuck her feet back into her clogs underneath Margaret’s desk and stood up. She gave a little wave and disappeared through the office door before Margaret could say another word.

7

Betrayed by a Bunch of Tweens

BROOKE walked into Lucky’s Nail Design on Ninth Avenue and found her mother already seated and reading a copy of Last Night. With Julian gone so often, her mother had volunteered to come into the city, take Brooke for a post-work mani and pedi, get some sushi for dinner, and spend the night before heading back to Philly in the morning.

“Hi,” Brooke said, leaning over to kiss her. “Sorry I’m late. The train was weirdly slow today.”

“Oh, you’re fine, dear. I just got here and was catching up on my celebrity gossip.” She held out the copy of Last Night. “Nothing about Julian or you, so don’t worry.”

“Thanks, but I’ve already read it,” she said, plunging her feet into the warm soapy water. “Comes in the mail a day earlier than it hits the newsstands. I think you can officially call me an authority on the subject.”

Brooke’s mom laughed. “Maybe if you’re such an expert, you can explain these reality TV stars. I have a lot of trouble keeping them straight.”

Mrs. Greene sighed and turned the page, revealing a double-page spread of the teenage actors from the latest vampire movie. “I miss the old days when Paris Hilton could be depended on to flash her panties and George Clooney would pull through with yet another cocktail waitress. I feel like I’ve been betrayed by a bunch of tweens.”

Brooke’s phone rang. She thought about letting it go to voice mail, but on the off chance it was Julian, she dug it out from her bag.

“Hey! I hoped it might be you. What time is it there?” She checked her own watch. “What on earth are you doing calling now? Aren’t you setting up for tonight?”

Although this was Julian’s fifth or sixth solo trip to Los Angeles since the Friday Night Lights party, Brooke still felt out of sorts with the time difference. By the time Julian woke up in the morning on the West Coast, Brooke had finished her lunch hour and was back at work for the rest of the afternoon. She’d call him the moment she got home in the evening, which usually put him right in the middle of meetings, and then he was always out to some dinner when she was going to bed and could never utter more than a whispered “good night” against the backdrop of glasses clinking and people laughing. It was only a three-hour difference, but to people working such opposite schedules, they may as well have been communicating across the international date line. She tried to be patient, but just last week, three nights had passed with little more than a bunch of texts and a quickie “Call you later.”

“Brooke, it’s crazy, all kinds of things are happening here.” He sounded wired, like he’d been up for days.

“Good things, I hope?”

“Beyond good things! I wanted to call you last night but by the time I got back to the hotel, it was already four in the morning your time.”

The pedicurist finished cutting the cuticles and yanked Brooke’s right foot into her lap. She squirted a bright green soap onto a pumice stone and raked it roughly over the sensitive middle of the foot. Brooke yelped.

“Ow! Well, I could use some good news. What’s up?”

“It’s official: I’m going on tour.”

“What? No! I thought you said the chances of that happening before the album came out were slim to none. That record companies don’t really sponsor them anymore.”

There was a moment’s pause. Julian sounded irritated when he said, “I know I said that, but this is different. I’ll be linking up with Maroon 5 in the middle of their tour. The lead singer of their first opener had some sort of breakdown, so Leo got in touch with some of his people at Live Nation, and guess who got the slot? Supposedly there’s a chance to become the second opener if that band goes on tour separately, but even if that doesn’t happen, the exposure is ridiculous.”

“Oh, Julian, congratulations!” Brooke tried to gauge her own voice to make sure she sounded excited and not devastated. With the odd way her mother was staring at her it was difficult to tell if she was succeeding.

“Yeah, it’s pretty insane. We’re going to spend this week in rehearsals, and then we’ll hit the road. The album will drop in the first few weeks, which is awesome timing. And, Rook? They’re talking real money.”

“Yeah?” she asked.

“Real money. A percentage of all ticket sales. Which would jump even higher if we ever make second opener. Considering Maroon 5 is selling out places like MSG . . . it’s an insane amount of cash. And it’s weird”—his voice got lower—“it’s like people are always looking at me. Recognizing me.”

The pedicurist slathered on warm cream and began to knead Brooke’s calves. Brooke wanted nothing more at that moment than to press End on her cell phone, recline her massage chair, and enjoy the foot rub. She felt nothing but anxiety. She knew she should’ve asked about the fans and the press, but all she could manage was, “So rehearsals start this week? Aren’t you coming home on the red-eye tonight? I thought I was going to see you tomorrow morning before work.”

“Brooke.”

“What?”

“Please don’t.”